My teeth ground together as she continued. Finally, unable to take it anymore, I interrupted. “Dr. Renaud, I graduated with honors from Stanford. This is only the first week of classes. I did well on all of my evaluations during orientation. My stepfather has no right to voice his opinions.”
“He said that you might say that. He also made it known that he had other ways to influence Columbia. We rely heavily upon donations.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that accepting you into our program was a well-thought-out decision, not one that our admissions committee made lightly. We put a lot of time into our selection process. Please don’t give us reason to doubt our decision.”
“As far as my tuition is concerned, I’m paying for my classes, not my stepfather or my mother.” Okay, it wasn’t me, but Nox. “I’ve secured the remainder of my tuition for the next three years. In the future, I’d like the name Alton Fitzgerald removed from all of my records. Speaking to him about me will be considered a breach of my privacy.”
Dr. Renaud sat silently for a moment, studying me, and then her veneer shattered and she smiled. “I like you. Show this same fortitude in your classes and I have no doubt that our decision to admit you as one of our students was a correct one. As a matter of fact, after what I just saw, I’d like to recommend you for an internship with one of your professors.”
I tried to keep up. One minute it seemed as though I was fighting for my right to continue as a student and the next she was talking to me about an internship. “Which professor? What would the internship entail?”
My stomach twisted with new nerves as she spoke about the duties required of all the interns. The work would mostly involve research, citing old cases and finding precedents to substantiate the cases in—or preparing to be in—litigation. My counselor joked that computers and databases made the research less exhausting than it had been back in her day; nevertheless, the work would require extensive time and would be unpaid. Despite all of that, she emphasized the benefits. Being accepted for this opportunity would give real-world application to my studies, making it not only an excellent experience but would also look great on a résumé.
“You may not be aware,” she said, “but Professor Walters is well known for his work in federal litigation in the fight against legalization of recreational marijuana. His research as well as sources was groundbreaking in its day. Having your name associated with Joseph Walters will open many doors.”
My name associated… will open doors?
Bryce’s warning of Nox came back to me. Was she speaking of opening doors for me, or would having a Montague, a tobacco giant, working with Professor Walters help him?
Surely that wasn’t what she’d meant.
I was just overwrought. It was the perfect ingredient for triggering my overactive imagination.
Dr. Renaud’s words brought my focus back to her as she said, “I’d be happy to recommend you to Professor Walters, but my recommendation alone wouldn’t guarantee you a spot.”
I nodded and, swallowing my concern, I considered the time commitment. Nox had his work and gladly supported me and my time for studies, but how would he feel about my spending more hours on this internship?
Why did I suddenly care?
Was I doing what Patrick said and beginning to think like a part of a couple?
In California, at Stanford, I would have willingly jumped at an opportunity like this.
“Dr. Renaud, is there an application or something I need to complete?”
She hit a few keys on her computer. “Let me email you the link.”
My chest rose and fell with the unfamiliar conflict of my future versus my present. Feigning a smile, I said, “Thank you for thinking of me for this opportunity. I’ll do some research and take a look at the application.”
“Miss Collins, these internships are coveted. Consider that as you’re doing your research.”
As I left Dr. Renaud’s office, I checked my phone and saw that I had fifteen minutes until my next class. Since that meeting with my faculty counselor had been unplanned, I decided to text Clayton, my new driver-slash-bodyguard.
Despite the warm afternoon, as I stepped against a building into the shadow to better see my screen, I thought of Jerrod. I’d grown accustomed to his presence and he’d failed me—us. The idea that the man who’d been assigned to me, who’d accompanied me for nearly the last month, was even partially responsible for the letter in our apartment filled me with a sense of doubt. I wanted to trust all of Deloris’s decisions, because I knew Nox did, but how could I be sure about Clayton? Would I be better off with someone from Montague Manor? If I did, who would it be? No matter how eloquently Alton professed his concern over my safety, giving up Brantley, his right-hand man, wouldn’t be an option.
My mouth filled with a sour taste. I didn’t want Brantley anyway.
If only I were the naïve woman Nox assumed I was when he first told me that I would have a driver, when I first protested. If I were, I wouldn’t be familiar with the way the system worked. Yes, the man or woman entrusted with my safety would be my bodyguard, but life experience told me that no matter where he or she came from—Deloris or Montague—I wouldn’t be the person who the bodyguard ultimately reported to. Supposedly, where I sought security was my choice, but in reality all it did was determine who would receive the reports of my daily activities, Nox or Alton. Knowing which answer I wanted, I shook my head and fingered the new drop-pearl necklace dangling from my neck.
The style looked chic and simple: a large ivory pearl floating freely within a diamond-dusted platinum cage. To the unknowing, it was a beautiful, understated accessory. Only a few people knew that the pearl wasn’t real but an iridescent casing around a microchip that broadcast my location via GPS to Deloris. More than that, it recorded my movements, my respiration, and even my heart rate.
Deloris had offered earrings, beautiful pearl-looking ones with a serpentine diamond base. The issue was that she wanted me to wear the jewelry all of the time—twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I didn’t like sleeping in earrings, but I could in a necklace. According to her, it only needed to be removed when I swam.
When she explained that I should basically not remove it, I narrowed my eyes and asked her to confirm that there wasn’t a camera attached to the necklace. She promised me that it was more like the health bracelets everyone wore, with the added benefit of pinpoint-accurate global positioning.
Recalling my telephone conversation with Nox from the night before, my face warmed. More than likely my cheeks were changing to the same color as the markings I’d willingly delivered to my own body as I worried about the heart-rate part of this necklace. I wasn’t sure I wanted Nox’s security to know that much about me.
I could hear them now. “Her heart rate is too high. Maybe we should call an ambulance?” And then they’d rush in and find me and their boss in some compromising position.
Shaking my head, I sent my text message to Clayton:
“I WILL BE DONE IN AN HOUR AND A HALF. YOU CAN PICK ME UP THEN, SAME PLACE YOU DROPPED ME OFF.”
Almost immediately Clayton’s response buzzed on my phone.
“YES, MA’AM. I’LL BE THERE.”
I FELT ODD watching Lana cook, but not Pat. I loved seeing how he combined ingredients to create heavenly meals. I sat at the counter overlooking his kitchen. Just beyond the smooth surface and my glass of chardonnay, my cousin was once again preparing magic in a pan—in three pans, to be more exact.
“Did you see the latest about the woman who was shot?” Patrick asked.
I cradled my head in my hands with my elbows on the granite. I had too many things to think about. I wanted her to be safe and spend my time with other concerns. “No. What did it say?”
“Oh! This isn’t a hold-your-head kind of thing.” His voice was full of animation. “They’ve changed their mind about her being an innocent bystander.”
I lifted my eyes. “What d
o you mean?”
His brow lengthened, revealing more of his forehead with his thinning hair, and his light brown eyes danced with secrets. “I don’t know for sure.”
“You lost me.”
“I think you should call that Mrs. Witt lady. All I know is that they said the case has been changed to attempted murder.”
“Wouldn’t it be anyway? I mean, she was shot. It’s not like I’ve been questioned and the police think Nox or I was the intended target.”
“That’s the thing. In the beginning they were saying that she was a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now there’s something about her relationship with her husband, questioning his whereabouts. It all makes it sound as if she was the intended target.” He continued to dice and stir, filling the air with the wonderful aroma of onions and peppers. “I could be reading too much into it, but I bet that woman knows more.”
“The woman who was shot?” I asked.
“No, that Witt woman.”
I shook my head. “Pat, I don’t know if I can entertain any more conspiracy theories.”
“But don’t you get it? If she was the intended target, it wasn’t you or Mr. Good-looking.”
I took a deep breath and leaned back against the tall stool. “That would be nice.”
“By the way, does he know you’re here?”
“Yes. My sleepover is Demetri-approved.”
“What about Montague? Do they approve?”
I shrugged. “Does it make me a terrible daughter if I say that my fucks are completely used with other concerns? I have no more to give.”
Patrick laughed. “No, little cousin, I think you deserve that. Now where were you last night?”
“Nox’s house…” If it had been almost anyone else, I wasn’t sure if I’d have answered the question so freely, but Patrick made me feel safe, just as he had all of our lives, protecting me in ways I didn’t even know.
After dinner, I asked, “Do you know anything about marijuana legislation?”
“You mean, did I consider moving to Colorado?”
A smile brightened my face. “That wasn’t what I meant. I need to look up some things about one of my professors.”
“I’m sure you could ask the Witt lady.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “No, it’s not that big of a deal. My faculty advisor wants to recommend me for an internship…”
“Because you don’t have enough on your plate?”
My lips formed a straight line. “Because she said it would be good for me.” I considered what she’d said. “It would be a good name association. I don’t know. I think it’s something Bryce said to me that’s eating at me.”
Patrick plopped down on the sofa and kicked his feet onto the glass coffee table. Faking a full body shiver, he said, “I’d think most anything he said would eat at you. Kind of like a tapeworm, you know, from the inside until nothing was left. Why are you even considering what he’d say?”
“I don’t know. I’m confused. Two nights ago, when I came over here, I’d learned something about Nox, something unsettling. I still don’t know the details, but it seems that maybe some of Bryce’s warnings weren’t just hot air.”
“You’re not second-guessing that handsome man, are you? Not that you can,” he added.
“I’m not. But what if there’s more that I need to consider? This is about the internship. Bryce warned me that Nox was using me for my name, which is ridiculous since he didn’t even know it. Now I’m wondering about this professor. Would a tobacco name like Montague be an asset to his team?”
“That’s not something I could even begin to answer.”
“Maybe I should ask Bryce?”
Patrick’s nose scrunched.
I shook my head. “Or maybe not. I just don’t know anymore. Sometimes I think—”
The ringing of my phone, the friend-not-foe tune, redirected my attention. The screen read CHELSEA.
A weight I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying lifted from my chest. I’d missed my best friend, and soon she’d be with me in New York. I hadn’t originally been sure I wanted her here, but after being without her for over a month, I couldn’t wait for any little bit of time that we could find to be together.
“Hey! I’m so glad to see your name! When are you getting your butt to New York?”
Her incomprehensible sobs were all I could hear.
I jumped from the couch, clenching my phone in my grasp. “What is it?” I waited. “Chelsea, talk to me. Are you all right? Where are you?”
SITTING IN THE dark near the window in the library had become one of my favorite places to be. In the evenings I’d often make my way to the serenity of the solitude there. The velvet chaise near the large leaded-glass panes provided the perfect view. Though it was early autumn, the evening and early nighttime air was still warm. I liked to open the window and enjoy the gentle breeze as it silently fluttered the drapes. The scene below rarely changed. In some ways the moonlit, pristine manicured lawns, various gardens, pool, and lake gave me a sense of immortality.
As I brought my wine to my lips, the thought of immortality made me snicker. Just a little over a week ago, I was ready to test my mortality. My shoulders straightened. That was the past. Now I had a new purpose, a reason to move forward.
Settling against the plush velvet while taking in the never-changing scene a story below, I contemplated something Alexandria had said the last time she was here. She’d said that things at Montague Manor never changed. Even in her youth, she understood what generations before her had known: Montague Manor remained the same.
Throughout my life I’d found a sense of comfort in that. The landscape before me was the same as it had been for my mother and most likely for my grandmother. Even with consistent renovations and updated amenities, the manor and grounds were timeless.
I used to wonder what it all looked like hundreds of years ago, when the tobacco plantation was first settled. I’d ponder if the first Charles Montague knew how far-reaching his investment would take his ancestors or the impact it would have on their lives. Would it have been better to have descended from those who lived in one of the hundreds of tiny homes that once covered this property?
Those were the people who were now free of the burden that came with being a Montague.
Over the years, the peacefulness of the library had become my refuge. I’d long since given up the idea that the bedroom suite I shared with Alton was a place of anything but misery. The physical abuse wasn’t constant. It was the mental strain, the constant concern over my husband’s state of mind. The only reprieves came in his absence, which were too infrequent for my liking.
I sipped my wine.
If only he liked fast cars the way Russell had.
Since my visit to Hamilton and Porter a week before, my mind had been consumed with the possibilities of my discovery. I’d studied each photograph of each page, the article, and each and every word of the codicil. For days I worried that Alton had been alerted to my visit. I waited for the proverbial shoe to drop.
It never did.
My only conclusion was that Ralph Porter feared Alton Fitzgerald’s wrath at allowing me access to my father’s last will and testament even more than I was afraid of my husband’s reaction to learning of my exploration. That was fine with me. I wasn’t ready to announce my findings. I still wasn’t sure of their consequences. After all, Alton still professed his desire for Alexandria and Bryce’s marriage. He even appeared genuinely concerned when we learned of Alexandria’s horrifying experience just yesterday.
According to Article XII, if anything happened to Alexandria prior to her ability to wed Bryce, both Alton and I would be left without access to Montague assets. I supposed that it was my father’s way of protecting his youngest heir.
What I couldn’t understand was why Charles Montague II decided to add the codicil and why he did it just before his death. Could my father have known about Alton’s mistreatment of me and regretted his earlier decision
s and the faith he’d given to my husband?
My father was a proud and determined man who, in a moment of uncertainty about the future of his beloved company and assets, made a deal with the devil, using his daughter and granddaughter as collateral. The mere possibility that in my father’s final days he’d decided to right that wrong gave me a new and unusual feeling of empowerment. Just maybe, for once, Charles Montague realized that his daughter and granddaughter were more important than Montague. Perhaps he saw the monster he’d helped create and with a sense of dread at what might happen upon his own demise, Charles II regretted his decision.
My newfound paternal appreciation was muddied with thoughts of his demise.
I held tightly to my wine glass, wrapping both hands around the globe.
The Montague Private Collection chardonnay sloshed within the goblet as I began to tremble. It was after six o’clock, yet since my discovery, I’d avoided my normal reds. The lighter white wine didn’t dull my senses the way the red did. With my new knowledge of the codicil, I couldn’t afford to slip into my previous preferred state of oblivion. However, as my thoughts volleyed and settled around thoughts of my father, I couldn’t seem to control the way I shook. It was as if I were cold, despite my long-sleeved robe and the soft throw over my legs.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. No longer seeing the manicured lawns, I worked to calm the theories that vigorously bombarded my mind.
Maybe I should call for a cabernet?
I didn’t want to consider the possibility that lingered outside of my consciousness: the idea that my father’s death wasn’t the result of his age. It wasn’t the result of a high level of stress. That maybe—just maybe—there was a more sinister explanation and that explanation was the man who had slept beside me for nearly twenty years.
I’d be hard-pressed to compile a list of my husband’s finer qualities, but never had I considered murder. Then again, my father was guilty of the same crime, and Alton had always strived to emulate Charles Montague.
Deception Page 17